


black sun

by kokirane



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Canon Related, Character Study, Coming of Age, F/M, M/M, Pining, Time Skips, Vignettes, falling in love through the years, learning and growing and hurting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 22:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17517215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokirane/pseuds/kokirane
Summary: I wanted to conquer every universe; today, I want to kiss you, and I don’t know what any of it means.





	black sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iruusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iruusu/gifts).



i. 

In the story that Kouen reads to him, the poor man tells the princess that he would cross any ocean to see her again. They’re young, and he’s leaving. She gives him a handkerchief. He builds a ship over the span of months, collecting spare lumber and scraps of cloth, and after two years, he sails back to her kingdom, and watches her birthday parade. He’s earned a small fortune with his wit and charm, but he says nothing to her, content to just see her face. Her handkerchief is in his pocket. A ring is on her finger, gifted to her by the neighboring country’s prince. 

It’s the worst story  _ ever.  _

“Why did he leave if he liked her so much?” Judal asks. “Why didn’t he say anything when he came back?” 

“He had to earn a living,” Kouen says, hand steady and slow through Judal’s hair, “and he couldn’t do it there, even if the princess was beautiful.”

“Oh,” Judal says, frowning. “He’s kind of stupid.”

“You cannot eat love, dear Oracle,” Kouen says. 

“If he married the princess, she could just get him food,” Judal argues. “So I’m right. He’s stupid.”  

“He is,” Kouen agrees easily. Judal makes a face when Kouen licks his ink-stained finger to turn the page. 

“You’re going to get ink poisoning, En.” 

“I’ll die only after we finish this volume,” Kouen promises, and Judal, pleased, relaxes into his side and demands he start the next chapter. 

Years later, when he’s fifteen and knows the prick of first love like a cursed spindle, like the creep of frostbite, Judal remembers the story. An idea curls in the pit of his stomach, and he extends a hand and spreads a sheet of ice over the ocean. Under the moon, it glimmers. 

Judal has no riches of his own, no charm, no wit, but he has magic to spark at his heels and carry him forward. More than that, his voice burns in his throat, waiting to be heard, and Judal thinks,  _ I’ll talk to him I’ll talk to him I’ll talk to him  _ like a it’s a spell, like it can give him strength. He talks to the buzzing insects, and he asks them everything he wants to know about Sinbad, tells them everything he hasn’t said to anybody else. 

As the night stretches on, Judal wonders if he could ride a cloud instead, or make a boat, but then the monotony of _left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot_ would be lost, and he would have comprehend what he’s doing. So he practices his magic as he walks, fanciful little tricks, conjuring flowers and meaningless swirls of color. As light breaks, he passes boats stuck in place and stops to wheedle food out of the sailors. Some of them think he’s a woman. Judal laughs it off, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He likes the way he dresses, but he can’t deny why he started. 

He doesn’t want to think, so fuck it, he makes a shitty ice boat to sleep in. He closes his eyes and lets the waves, now free and wild, lull him into dreaming. 

Judal wakes when the boat bumps against the shimmering barrier of Sindria, and rubs at his eyes. It’s easy to make his way through the barrier, but simplicity ends there. His mouth tastes like cotton, but his heart is beginning to hammer in his chest. His lips curl. Sindria’s green earth is happily pliant under Judal’s chafed feet, and he has crossed an ocean for Sinbad. 

Sinbad, who may like only women, who may only tease him because he thinks Judal isn’t worth his damn time, who may not want to see him at all -- Judal doesn’t even have a  _ handkerchief --   _

Judal’s heart is ready to rip through his chest, so he nicks a peach from the bazaar and climbs up a tree. Sinbad’s kingdom is instantly dappled in green and yellow, and Judal slows his breathing. It’s familiar up here. He could be anywhere. He could be back in Kou. 

But there’s sea salt in the air here, so -- he can’t quite forget. 

Love, Judal figures, can’t be wholly noble if someone like himself can feel it, so it’s okay if he wants to turn back, if he ignores the stunning palace looming up towards the sky -- it doesn’t make this anything less than the stories. In the stories, the man is silent. In the stories, he never sees the princess again. 

It’s  _ boring.  _

Judal has magic, blood, and a dying voice, but if anything, he can be something more when Sinbad conquers the world with him. They’ll be history makers, things of legend instead of children’s stories. Judal feels a surge of confidence, one unique to being fifteen and in love for the first time, but he continues to sit amongst the branches. Lets his heartbeat steady before he flies to the ground. 

The man in the story had been just content to see the princess’s face. And why? Was he really so selfless not to burden her? Nobody like that exists, so was he a coward? Was he hoping she would turn and see him, and do something on her own? 

After doing so much, how could someone just be paralyzed? How could someone be moved to such goddamn indecision? Judal doesn’t want to be like that. 

_ I’ll talk to him,  _ Judal repeats to himself,  _ I’ll talk to him.  _

_ Stop thinking. Stop fucking thinking and just go. He’s just a man.  _

Even as he makes his way down the tree, Judal knows Sinbad isn’t  _ just  _ a man. As if. Sinbad is the  _ only  _ man, the only one Judal would want as king as more for this life and his next, but that -- even in all of its overwhelming truth -- can’t shake him. Not if he wants Sinbad to be his king, and Judal wants that more than anything. So he ignores the pain in his feet, the trepidation in his gut, and he flies to Sinbad’s window and climbs through. 

Sinbad, surprisingly, is right _there,_ hunched over a pile over paperwork. Seemingly unfazed, he merely looks up and raises an eyebrow. “Judal?”

_ Judal _ , not oracle, not magi. 

“Stupid king,” Judal greets, like he’s  _ not  _ the idiot here. “What’re you up to?”

“What happened to your feet?” Sinbad says instead, puts down his quill to come and look closer. Judal’s heart is beginning to increase in tempo, like the drums from Kou’s last celebration. They’re close. So close. 

It’s exhilarating. 

“Nothin’,” Judal says, yelps as Sinbad swings him up in his arms. Judal locks his arms around Sinbad’s neck, looks up at the strong, clean line of his jaw and the sway of his golden earrings. 

Sinbad’s eyes are tired underneath all the glitter and color, and without thinking, Judal reaches up to push his hair back, to slide his fingernails down Sinbad’s cheek. 

That touch is his smallest act defiance, but it feels greater than breaking Sindria’s barrier. Judal’s heart is pounding and his cheeks are warm, but he fights it down. 

Sinbad lays Judal onto his bed, kneels ( _ kneels _ \-- Judal’s heart has definitely stopped) and holds Judal’s foot in his hand. 

“Judal,” Sinbad says, “where’s your carpet? Outside?”

Judal shakes his head. “Walked.”

“Walked,” Sinbad murmurs. “Why?”

The world holds its breath. Judal says, “To see you.” 

He thinks, _ because this way, it means something.  _

“To see me,” Sinbad repeats. “Really?”

“C’mon, you can’t be that stupid,” Judal mutters, feeling his cheeks flush. “Ow, fuck!”

“Sorry,” Sinbad says, keeps examining Judal’s chafed feet. Judal can only watch, a little awed, and try to find his words again. 

“Join me,” he says a bit helplessly, when Sinbad finally looks back at him. He wants Sinbad to look at him for the rest of his fucking  _ life _ . When Sinbad doesn’t instantly shoot him down, he dares to hope, dares to add, “Be my candidate.” 

“You belong to the Kou Empire,” Sinbad says. He’s rubbing a circle around Judal’s ankle, but he’s still looking up, hasn’t thrown Judal out the window yet. 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Judal says, “but if it was you -- maybe I would want to.” 

Sinbad smiles then, and Judal  _ knows _ that smile. It’s the one the maids first used to give him, when they whispered  _ did you hear about his parents  _ and  _ poor child must be so alone  _ behind their hands _ , _ and so Judal smiles back, and clings harder to the small white hope inside of him. If he has to play the pity card, he’ll play the pity card. If Sinbad wants to take care of him, fine. Sinbad is the only good thing he has, and if some piss-poor fairytale hero can hold out for two years and be immortalized, Judal can one-up him. 

He’ll play Sinbad until he fucking breaks. 

“I can’t,” Sinbad says, and Judal says, “I know.” 

“Thank you for coming,” Sinbad says, and Judal says, “I’m going to come back.” 

Sinbad is still holding his foot, and he releases it when with a quiet laugh mixed with something like a sigh. He’s not looking at Judal anymore. 

“I don’t think I can stop you.” Sinbad turns away, back to his desk. As if nothing has happened, he picks up his quill and continues writing as Judal climbs out the window.

ii.

The spells on the page twist and meld and become parts of Sinbad: gold eyes blink on in the place of gemstones, purple hair coils where Judal should be reading about snakeskin. 

Judal rubs at his eyes, takes a slow breath. Annoyance colors his exhale when his fingers come away purple and black. He wipes off his makeup with his palm and flips the page with a scowl. The potion calls for brine; a memory of the sea’s whispers on a cold night comes to him. 

He’s been putting distance between himself and Sindria, but it’s driving him crazy. The longer he waits, the worse the crash will be, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He should care, right? But nothing matters, right? When is life is nothing more than worthless ploy of the rukh — 

“Stupid,” Judal tells the page. His candle is almost burnt down, and Judal isn’t even halfway done with his readings. Night has long since fallen; sleep is calling for him, but if he doesn’t finish the pages by tomorrow, his teachers will be — displeased. 

When ink-stained fingers touch his shoulder, Judal yelps and slams the book shut. The book traps his chunni and tugs it down; Kouen’s gaze drops to his collarbones, and Judal feels his cheeks warm. While Judal watches, Kouen frees the cloth and rearranges it around Judal’s shoulders again.

“You’ll make it black,” Judal says belatedly. 

“Nothing a little magic can’t fix.” Kouen sits down next to him with a soft laugh. “The ink has dried, anyway. You’ve been studying quite a bit today, oracle.” 

He points to Judal’s face, where a streak of makeup goes from his eye to his hairline. 

“Yeah.” Judal can’t remember a single thing. 

Kouen’s chin is propped on his hand as he glances down at the book, scanning its title. His hair is in disarray, reminding Judal of embers sparking from a fire. He looks like he hasn’t rested either. 

“Did that hag ask you to check on me?” Judal says.

Kouen’s smile is tired. “Perhaps I just wanted an excuse to see you.” 

“That’s my line,” Judal flicks Kouen’s forehead. “You’re usually asleep by now, old man. You wouldn’t have come if Kougyoku hadn’t said shit.”

“You’re right as always.” Kouen murmurs. He  _ almost  _ feels bad when Kouen doesn’t say anything more. Part of it is definitely tactical, a way to see if Judal will offer more information, yet Judal finds himself smoothening the crease of Kouen’s brow. 

“Hey,” Judal says. “I have my own things, anyway. Don’t look so pathetic.” 

_ His own things,  _ as if Kouen didn’t know that meant Judal was licking his wounds by throwing himself into his studies. Kouen, however, is merciful. He’s got a soft spot for Judal; it’s the only weakness that Judal would excuse in a candidate. 

“How kind of you,” Kouen reaches out to grasp Judal’s hand, entwines their fingers. Judal’s always liked how their hands fit, how Kouen’s litany of paper cuts and scars and calluses brush against his skin. “Why don’t you tell me where I can find you tomorrow?” 

A promise curls through smoke. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Judal says. Kouen smiles, red eyes burning in the dying candlelight. 

iii.

“So? What… do you think?”

There’s probably a better way to phrase her question, but right now, Kougyoku’s more interested in the folds of her dress. Her twisting hands leave faint imprints of sweat, and she arranges the fabric over them carefully. But she’s done it, she’s said it in a moment of bravery (foolishness?) and now she must wait. 

Judal takes his time, too, staring up at the sky like he hasn’t even heard her. She clears her throat, pretends it’s not Judal she’s speaking to. 

(But who else would it be?) 

“If you wanted to get laid,” Judal says, “you could’ve asked anyone here.”

“Judal-chan, that’s an abuse of power,” she frowns. “I would never.” 

Judal shrugs. “A body’s a body.” 

“It’s not like that,” she squawks. “I mean… I  _ do _ want to… uhm, I want to get to know him… but because it’s him, you know? I like him…”

She thinks of when his hand had wrapped around hers, how he carried himself. The gravity of his golden eyes, the warmth of his smile -- since their first meeting, he’s been nothing but a gentleman, and she finds herself falling more and more with each passing day. 

“If it’s that simple, I could just kiss you,” Judal says. Kougyoku thinks she’s hearing things until he adds, “Hag,” petulantly, expectantly, and glares at her. He looks tired, painted eyelids drooping more than usual. 

“Oh, um,” Kougyoku says, because there was a time, once, when she thought maybe she and Judal would grow up and into something, but lately, all they’ve done is grow apart. She knows that, like the tides she commands, Judal will always come back, but -- 

But right now, he feels farther than ever, even if he’s right beside her. 

So she reaches out for him, and their hands meet midway. She pulls back, nervous, and looks up at him. Waits. 

“Come here,” Judal mutters, and then he’s kissing her, lips chapped and dyed with the sweet flavor of peaches. Tentatively, she holds onto his arms. The kiss is brief, but enough. This isn’t what she wants. A look from Sinbad has her feeling more than a kiss from Judal -- there’s just an uneasiness in her chest, a never ending prayer to be okay. 

“There.” Judal draws back, shakes off her hands. “That’s a kiss. Don’t need any stupid kings for that.” 

“Judal-chan,” she says slowly, hopes he’ll understand what she’s trying to say. “You’re my best friend.”

Judal smiles. “Sucks for you.” 

She swats at his arm, pouts. It would be so, so easy to fall into their usual banter, but she’s a  _ soldier.  _ If she can face battle, she can face her heart. 

“I think,” she says carefully, “that you’re trying to protect me, but I want -- I want you to know I’m strong.” 

“You wouldn’t be my candidate otherwise,” Judal says. “Though I’ve noticed the strong don’t have much brains.” 

“Brother En is smart,” comes Kougyoku’s automatic protest. “And Brother Mei.” 

“Your brothers are tasteless,” Judal waves a hand. “And they passed it onto you. I could find you a better man even if I was blindfolded.” 

“You wanted Sinbad to be your candidate,” Kougyoku says, hushed now. In the time he had been pursuing Sinbad, Judal had been a bit distant from them. Their teenage years had been a bit tumultuous for both of them, one of their drifting times, but Kougyoku had been under the impression that Judal and Sinbad were as fine as they could be. 

Now, she thinks she may be missing part of the story. The way Judal is acting is weird even for him: doesn’t he still try to recruit Sinbad as his king? Doesn’t concern for Judal show on Sinbad’s face? If Sinbad is a worthy king, isn’t he worthy for Kougyoku? Determined, Kougyoku straightens her back and smooths her skirt. 

“I did,” Judal agrees easily enough. He’s conjured a peach out of his pockets, and is rubbing it clean with his chunni. He sinks his teeth into the soft fruit, adds, “He’s not what you think he is.” 

“Tell me,” she says, and Judal stands up, brushes his hands on his pants and throws a mirthless smile over his shoulder. 

“I’m sure you’ll find out.” 

_ I’ve made a mistake  _ washes over her like cold, cold waves, and then it draws back; she thinks,  _ this is my choice. _

iv.

When he drinks, Sinbad thinks, inexplicably, of Judal. 

It’s hard not to. Early on, Judal had discovered that if he showed up with a wine bottle dangling from his fingers, Sinbad would let him stay. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. They would drink together on his floor, feet and knees brushing together, Judal’s red eyes glittering from the fireplace light. And now, somehow, Sinbad finds himself missing Judal on nights like these. He hasn’t seen Kou’s oracle lately, and something’s begun to gnaw at him. 

“What’s there to miss?” Ja’far had asked, and Sinbad hadn’t been able to reply. 

Who Judal is? Who Judal could be? The chance to be a part of that? 

What he does know is this: Judal has two laughs, and one is infinitely more beautiful than the other. 

_ Beautiful.  _ He wasn’t supposed to think of Judal is  _ beautiful,  _ but he was. Shallowly, Sinbad had known it. Judal’s hair was long, dark, and curling around large eyes and a lean body. And then as drink burned their throats, he learned how Judal could sing as sweet as any songbird, how he could laugh so hard he hiccuped -- 

There was a night when Judal had outpaced him, drunk about twice as much as usual. Sinbad had sensed something prickling, wrong, but he hadn’t been able to stop him. Judal had danced out of his way, letting the liquor slosh out of his cup, and Sinbad was bound to the floor by his heavy limbs and hazy mind. When Judal finally put his glass down, there had been wine on his chin and tears on his cheeks, and Sinbad moved to hold him.

_ I didn’t ask for this life, I don’t want a life where this is all I can have --  _

_ Stay tonight, Judal. Sleep this off.  _

Even now, his stomach fills with an odd emptiness. That had been the wrong thing to say. Judal’s life wasn’t something he could just  _ sleep off _ , and yet there was nothing more than Sinbad could have given him then. Judal had wiped his face and given Sinbad a watery smile, had left within the next hour. Sinbad had sat at the window, like he is now, and waited. 

Judal didn’t come back. 

Rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers, Sinbad lets out a tired sigh. He’d gotten used to Judal’s laughing, to his stuttering breaths. He was used to being -- admired, maybe, is the word, but never by someone like Judal. 

Judal was, in plain terms, the enemy, but those nights -- both of their defenses had been down, and it had been  _ nice.  _ There was something under that red-eyed bravado. 

He’s never wanted to help someone as much as Judal. He’d tried bringing it up to Ja’far, and Ja’far had said, “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. You can’t save everyone, Sin.” 

But if Judal didn’t want help, why did he keep coming back? Could Sinbad really blame him? Whenever his frustration peaked, Sinbad had to remind himself that Al-Thamen did this. If Judal had never been a magi, had never left his village --

They would’ve never met. 

Somehow, that hurts. Somehow, a part of Sinbad thinks the rukh would have brought them together anyway. 

But he cannot change the past, so he’ll look to the future. 

Judal is his chance to do the right thing, to save a life and turn the tides of war, the  _ world -- _ the world, resting on the shoulders of a boy -- but whenever he pries, Judal laughs him off. 

A gulf yawns between them. 

Sinbad thinks they’re both just trying to protect something.

Judal aims to protect himself, and war is what he knows best. Judal’s had to fight his entire life, is  _ still  _ fighting for all Sinbad knows. Sinbad’s heart aches for him, but Sindria  _ cannot  _ fall prey to Al-Thamen. 

If Judal ever comes through his window again, Sinbad will say that he’s sorry. 

v.

~~ dear ~~ stupid king,

this became something it wasn’t supposed to be. if you just listened to me! you never listen, and now you’re running around with some kid like he could be better than me? how long have you even known him? 

i didn’t  _ want _ to attack you. I mean, I guess I did, but did you really leave me another choice? seriously, first you pull this shit with me, and now kougyoku? she’s smitten, you asshole, and you’re just going to keep her on a hook so you can use her. not that i fucking care, she’s her own person or whatever, but sometimes -- is she really? she just follows kouen and everyone with stars in her eyes, so don’t think you’re special. 

i can’t leave my bed. i think i’m going to suffocate. i think i could be okay with that only if i took gyokuen down with me. and the rest of the world. especially you. i hope you choke on your wine and spit it on kougyoku so i never have to hear about you two again. she’s supposed to marry a magician anyway. 

the clothes you like -- they don’t hide bruises. i don’t know what i’m holding onto. is this really trying to reclaim my dignity? sure. why not? fuck sending this but koumei says writing things helps so i’ll put down everything i can’t tell you. i can hear kouen screaming from his wing. i don’t know what he’s pissed at now: you, me, both of us? everything? 

koumei was wrong. this is boring and i’m tired. i hope cockroaches crawl down your throat and you throw up. i hope all you get shitty cheap alcohol and i hope the girls you run after throw things at you. i know i would. 

this is judal if you haven’t figured it out by now. stupid. as if you’ll see this. i wonder if you know, though, just by me putting these words on paper. i’m going to burn this. maybe i’ll let kouen read it first. he’s really funny when he’s jealous. or -- sad. Whatever.

what do you look like when you’re jealous, sinbad? is there someone you like? probably not, right? it’s always sindria, sindria, sindria. everything ends, anyway. 

everything ends. goodbye, sindria. goodbye, sinbad. goodnight, goodbye. 

vi.

When Judal opens his door, Kouen’s hand is already on his sword. Once he sees the pale, round face of his magi, he releases his grip. 

“Hello, little moon,” Kouen says.

Judal lifts up the covers and curls up next to him, hides his face in Kouen’s shoulder. “You got a story?” 

“Mm,” Kouen says. He stretches his arm around Judal and pulls him in close, laughs quietly at the soft scratchiness of Judal’s hair against his chest. “Where did we leave off last time?” 

“I don’t know,” Judal says, beginning to pull on the ends of Kouen’s hair, russet and tangled. “Your hair’s getting long, old man.” 

“No longer than yours.” 

“You like my hair,” Judal says. “Don’t complain.” 

“Never,” Kouen promises, presses a kiss to Judal’s forehead. “I take it you don’t like mine, then.” 

Moonlight shines through the window panes, paints Judal’s solemn face in silver gossamer. “I’m going to cut off your beard in your sleep.” 

“Is that so,” Kouen says. “After all the stories I’ve told you?”

“Yeah,” Judal yawns. “C’mon. You’ll still have princesses begging for your hand every fuckin’ day.” 

“Not  _ every _ day,” Kouen drawls. “Every other day, perhaps.”

Judal squints at him. “When are you gonna pick one of them?” 

“The only person I would marry is here already,” Kouen says. “Though I wasn’t going to ask like this. There were going to be peaches.” 

Judal’s gaze cuts around the room involuntarily. “What, me?” 

“You.” 

“En.” This is the softest that he’s heard Judal. “What about the  _ empire _ ?” 

“I don’t need a queen to rule,” Kouen brushes Judal’s bangs back. “If you don’t want to, that’s a separate matter. You’ve never cared what other people thought.” 

“I’ve never been married before,” Judal says. “So I don’t really know. But you said something about peaches?” 

“As many as you want.”

“That sounds nice. But not much different from now.” 

“Mm.” Kouen says. “Sleep on it. Give me an answer tomorrow.”

“Impatient.” Judal clicks his tongue. “It’s up to me to tell the bedtime story, huh? Since your head’s so damn empty tonight.”

“Oh?”  

“I’m in love,” Judal says softly. “At the same time I’m not, because how can you be something without knowing yourself?” 

vii. 

Kougyoku tugs on Judal’s foot with growing insistence. “Judal-chan, they’re bringing clothes from Kina! They always have such pretty dresses!”

“Take someone else,” comes the muffled reply. 

“Nobody is as fun as you,” Kougyoku pouts. That gets Judal to poke his head out, all red-eyed tiredness and tangled hair.  

“You think I’m fun?” Judal says suspiciously. “I just follow you around and make sure you don’t die.” 

“Please!” 

“Only if we ditch Ka Kobun.” Judal sinks back under the blankets. “He’s a pain in the ass.” 

Kougyoku grabs at his hand and pulls in earnest. “Absolutely. I just want it to be us.” 

“Then alright,” Judal says. “We’ll go.” 

“Are you going to bathe?” Kougyoku perches on the edge of his bed, wrinkles her nose. “You should.”

“Nah,” Judal says. He reaches over to his bedside drawer and picks up a loose red tunic, slides it over his head. “C’mon.”

Kougyoku raises an eyebrow. “Is that K—”

“Nope,” Judal says. He stretches, joints popping, and groans. “Fuck.” 

Kougyoku wonders what’s more likely: that he’s hiding or flaunting something. But then Judal’s holding out his hand to help her onto his carpet, and she puts it out her mind. 

It’s good to have the wind in her hair. Here, above it all, everything seems to just fall away. She dares to put her head on his shoulder while they fly down to the market, and she thinks, maybe, that Judal leans against her too. 

They hit the food stalls before the dresses, and before she loses her nerve, she blurts it out. Judal’s choosing between a vegetable skewer and fried octopus; Kougyoku says, “He rejected me.” 

“Oh?” Judal say. “What did I tell you?” 

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” Kougyoku says. Now that Judal looks closer, he can see that the powder on her under eyes conceals red, tired skin. He chooses two vegetable skewers, and silently passes her one. 

“But here you are, telling me now,” Judal sighs, “so out with it, hag.” 

They make it about ten feet past the stall before her shoulders begin to shake. 

“What,” Judal says, “wanted an octopus one instead?” 

“Y-yeah.” There are tears running down her face, dripping over her lips and yet she still tries to eat. Judal wrinkles his nose. He buys her an octopus skewer, and finds a bench for them to sit at. 

“I hate it,” Kougyoku says, “Why do I rely on other people like this? He  _ used _ me.” 

“So you’re empty like the rest of us,” Judal says. “Big deal. You gotta fill it with something.” 

“What do you do?” Kougyoku sniffs. “Don’t tell me it’s fighting.”

“It is,” Judal says, pauses. “And flying. And other things. But you gotta find your own.” 

Kougyoku gives a tiny hiccup. “I guess.”

“Don’t thank me yet, hag.” Judal tosses his skewer to the ground and holds out his hand. “Let’s shop till you’re sick.” 

She takes his hand, her own small and cold, and squeezes tight. 

viii.

The thing is, when Judal gets fucking blasted into space, it’s not what he thinks it would be. Dying. Or coming close to dying. Whatever.

He doesn’t think about Kouen, about his hands grappling for him that night. How if Kouen had just said  _ stay _ , had realized what was happening, maybe things could’ve been different. 

He doesn’t think about Hakuryuu fighting for his life. He’s confident in any candidate of his. Hakuryuu, he knows, will be fine. 

He doesn’t think about Sinbad, either. In another life, it could’ve been good with him. In this life, Sinbad knew it was all gonna go to shit and he was right.

The only man Judal thinks about himself, and later, he’s proud of it. He’s all he’s got. Once he realizes he can still breathe, he lets himself think of his parents.

He doesn’t know what they look like, but his imagination paints them a little like Hakuei and Markkio, which is a little too weird to dwell on. He lets them be a little more amorphous, and wonders if they’re watching. If he’s going to meet them. 

Does he want to? Like this?

“I wanted you to be proud of me,” Judal tells the wall of his borg, where he’s pressed his hand. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that it’s soft, warm — like the forgiving palm of a mother. “I want to proud of myself.” 

If he makes it back — no,  _ when _ he makes it back — he’ll fix everything.

As it turns out, his resolve lasts as long as his stamina: running from the jaws of a monster, with no magic, has him cursing that he’d still alive.

It only gets worse when  _ Alibaba  _ saves his ass, and decides they’re close enough to ask Judal for romantic advice. Multiple times. 

It just doesn’t end. 

“So wait,” Alibaba begins in hushed tones,  _ even though they’re in space,  _ “who was it?”

“Who was what?” Judal says irritably. “Do you really think someone’s going to hear? What are you embarrassed about?” 

“The person,” Alibaba hedges, totally ignoring him. “The people. That you. You know.”

“That again? You’re not missing much, haniwa bastard,” Judal says, “your life is already so miserable.” 

“Morgiana and I were going to be married!” Alibaba seems to stand a little straighter. Judal can’t really tell. 

“Yeah, well,” Judal shrugs. His shirt still isn’t dry, and he’s cold. He’s not too keen on helping Alibaba, now or ever. “You’re asking the wrong person.” 

“But you said--”

“I was never engaged or anything,” Judal says. “Not that I didn’t have the chance.”

Alibaba yelps. “Who would marry  _ you _ ? Wait,  _ Kougyoku? _ ” 

Judal can’t help it: he laughs, laughs until his throat is sore. “Not the old hag. Anyway -- you wouldn’t know these people, so don’t bother asking.” 

_ People,  _ Alibaba mouths. “How did you do that?” 

“How?” Judal blinks. It’s one thing to have no entertainment in space, but he’s indulged Alibaba for too long now. “Go get an anatomy lesson.” 

“From  _ who _ ?” Alibaba says belligerently. “And that’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t care.” Judal whips his wet shirt at Alibaba, sends the little ragdoll running. 

In all honesty, he can’t remember who the first was. He had been at a bar, and she had been quiet and light-haired. The opposite of what he usually went for, and so it felt less real, somehow. After her, it was easier, and everyone tended to blend together after a while. 

He hadn’t  _ liked  _ any of them, so -- he can’t really tell what Alibaba wants. He doesn’t want to think about the one who mattered, but Judal can’t help but wonder — 

Is he dead? 

“Judal.” Alibaba’s back. “We’ll get back home.” 

“What?” Something’s stirring in him. Something like he should get back and find out. But how? 

“We’ll get back home,” Alibaba repeats. That seems less believable than Alibaba being engaged. Judal shrugs, which feels like answer enough, after everything he’s already said.

“Really though, was it Kougyoku?” Alibaba says suddenly. 

“Shut up if you want to live.” 

ix.

When Sinbad falls, Judal’s the one who catches him. 

It’s what Sinbad  _ wanted _ to do for Judal but never could. So when he feels thin arms around him, the clatter of Judal’s staff hitting the ground instead of his own body, Sinbad gasps, closes his eyes. 

“Hey,” Judal mutters, “I’ve got you.” 

All Sinbad can manage is, “Why?” 

With Judal, Sinbad can never say what he means. He doesn’t know what’s stopping him now, but maybe it’s the calmness in the lines of Judal’s body, the way his lips quirk up instead of exploding into a manic smile. Maybe it’s the way Judal’s looking at him like he  _ understands,  _ like they had never turned away from each other. 

It’s always something. He wants to close his eyes again. Being fourteen again, after so long, is tiring. 

“I can’t believe you’re really saying that,” Judal scoffs, pulls Sinbad up so their arms can link and Sinbad’s weight isn’t dragging them both down. He sinks into Judal’s side, and Judal hums and stops. 

“We can sit,” Judal says. “Throwing the century’s biggest bitchfit is hard, huh?” 

“Shut up,” Sinbad says, but Judal’s already flopping onto the ground. After a moment, Sinbad climbs onto Judal’s raised knees. Judal’s pants are torn, his skin scraped, but Judal allows Sinbad to rest there, stretches out his legs and retracts them the way one would play with a child. Here, on the ground with Sinbad above him, gripping onto him, Judal smiles. 

“Your very own magic carpet ride,” Judal teases. Distantly, he remembers masked men playing this with him until he got an actual carpet of his own. 

“You’ve grown,” Sinbad says. 

“You didn’t. But you finally listened to me, huh?” Judal reaches up to skim his fingers against Sinbad’s cheek, covered in ash and dirt but so soft, so round. “Stupid king. It’s about time you heard what I’ve been trying to say.” 

“Stupid magi,” Sinbad retorts, sticking out his tongue. If he’s fourteen again and defeated for the first time, he thinks he can afford a little childishness. It’s only Judal anyway, and he’s a little surprised and nostalgic at the comfort of that thought. 

Judal pinches his cheek, causing Sinbad to scowl and climb off of him. 

“Everyone’s out there fighting,” Judal sighs. “I wish I was too, but I’m just stuck with a little brat.” 

“Now you know how I felt,”  Sinbad huffs. “When I had to deal with you.” 

“You should be grateful that I spared you my time,” Judal says. “Should I kill you? What would happen then? Should I kill you for everything you’ve done, hmm?” 

“It won’t matter when we go back to the rukh,” Sinbad says flatly. “You’ve always cursed your destiny.” 

“My destiny, Sinbad,” Judal smiles, sharp and thin, “was to be with you.” 

“You went with Al-Thamen to the Kou empire.” Sinbad says. “Don’t give me that.” 

“I did.” Judal says. “But if we’re going to talk destiny -- don’t try and blame me.” 

There’s no energy left to fight. “I’m sorry,” Sinbad says. 

“I’m sorry too,” Judal says, too easily, and Sinbad turns to him incredulously. 

“Why?” 

“Like I was saying.” Judal waves a hand airily. “We coulda gotten along.”  

“When we go back to the rukh, maybe you can be my magi in the new world,” Sinbad offers quietly. “Keep me on track.” 

“We’re not going back to the rukh.” Judal squeezes Sinbad’s hand. “Life isn’t fair, little one.”

“So that’s why we should go back– you could get what you wanted --” 

“I grew,” Judal interrupts, “because life wasn’t fair. That’s how you grew, too.”

“It brought us to this,” Sinbad argues, “if we go back to the rukh, everyone will be happy!”  

“You could’ve been happy in this life,,” Judal says. “When Chibi and the others win, and if you live, we can talk again.”

“So now what? We wait?”

“We wait.” 

x.

Judal wakes up to knuckles grazing his cheek, feather-soft. 

He can’t hear the rukh anymore, can’t feel it fluttering around him, but that’s what it feels like -- he sits up hurriedly, hair catching in his mouth as he hopes it’s not just a dream within a dream -- 

It’s Sinbad, pale and flowing, on the edge of his bed with a quiet smile.

Judal rubs his eyes. It’s got to be a dream. Open, close, open, close -- Sinbad is still there. 

“So you can see me too,” Sinbad says. 

“Too?” Judal says. “What?”

“Aladdin,” Sinbad clarifies. “You two have been touched by the rukh. You can see me.” 

“ _ Have been,” _ Judal says. “Here to be my plus one, stupid king?”

“Ah,” Sinbad says. “The wedding.” 

“The wedding,” Judal confirms. “You better not be around when I’m back.”

“You don’t want to see me,” Sinbad says softly. “I understand. Still. I wanted to thank you.”

Judal snorts. “For what? Kickin’ your ass? I would’ve done that a long time ago, Sinbad.”

“You, Aladdin, Alibaba, Hakuryuu. You four grounded me,” Sinbad says. “You did what I never could do for you.”

Judal reaches out and shoves petulantly at Sinbad’s shoulder. He tries not to notice that torso down, Sinbad is just a fluttering mass of rukh. No legs -- like Kouen. 

Will Kouen be at the wedding? 

Sinbad watches him; it makes his skin prickle. “I’m proud of you, Judal.” 

“I don’t care if you’re proud,” Judal stands up, holds a hand over his hair to weave it together. After a moment, he turns from Sinbad’s gaze, speaks to the wall. “I did it for me.”

“Judal,” Sinbad says softly. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. That’s what I should be doing.”

“I don’t care,” Judal repeats, but something in his voice cracks. When he goes, Sinbad doesn’t follow him. It doesn’t stop Judal from looking over his shoulder along the way, though. 

Kouen _ is _ at the wedding. It’s one of those things: Judal will always have shit luck, Kouen will always have eyes like warm embers, and Sinbad will always be a thorn pressing in. Judal sucks in his cheeks, and goes over. Kouen looks down at him, gives a faint smile. 

“Hello, Judal,” Kouen says. 

Judal could’ve gotten up on his toes and kissed him, could’ve said something like  _ of course my candidate would be the one saving people’s asses,  _ but the time for that is long gone, so he gives a small smile of his own. It’s not like they haven’t met since the whole civil war bullshit, but something about being at a wedding makes Judal’s skin crawl. He can’t help remembering how Kouen had proposed many moons ago, and feels a tug in his stomach. 

What he ends up saying is, “Sinbad’s not dead.”

“Shame,” Kouen says, and holds out his arm. Judal curls his hand around it, purses his lips. 

“Don’t you wanna know how I know?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Kouen says. “So go on.” 

“The fucker just showed up,” Judal scowls. “He’s part of the flow, but I can see him. Apparently so can Chibi.” 

“Ah,” Kouen says. “Perhaps he can clean up the mess he created then.”

“Don’t you mean make it worse?” 

Kouen shrugs, gaze sliding to where Alibaba and Morgiana have appeared. “There’s the happy couple.”

“Sickening,” Judal sighs. Kouen’s laugh is quiet, more of an exhale, but it’s enough to make Judal smile. With a gentle squeeze of Kouen’s arm, he steps back. “I should get going.”

“Already?” Kouen raises an eyebrow. 

“I’m just here to show my face,” Judal says. “But I don’t want to stay.” 

“You will be missed,” Kouen says. Judal musters up a small wave. 

He doesn’t know if he wants Sinbad to still be there when he returns. Part of it still feels like a dream.

He opens his door carefully, peers around. There’s nobody; Judal releases the breath he’d been holding. 

It’s when he reaches his bed that he sees Sinbad asleep there, and groans.

xi.

Sinbad recuperates with Aladdin and Judal. Ja’far visits often, as much as he can while trying to salvage Sindria Corp. It’s futile, but Ja’far still tries to hold it together.

Sinbad supposes that’s what maintaining their friendship. The unwavering nature of Ja’far colors everything he does. He’ll save Sindria. He’ll save Sinbad. 

Sinbad isn’t sure what  _ saving  _ means anymore. He thought he’d been saving the world, ending war, but Aladdin and Alibaba say he was brainwashed, that he wasn’t himself. Sinbad feels a bit peeved about it, when he has enough energy. Mainly -- he sleeps. 

“Men like you,” Judal had said, “like to be in control. That’s what makes you a great commander.”

“Thanks,” Sinbad had huffed.

“Great at war, shit at living.” Judal’s smirk still curls around Sinbad’s thoughts. It’s probably the most benign thing he can think of these days: a boy who conquered the war within himself. _An_ _example to follow_ , according to Aladdin. _Start with saving yourself._

“When did I become this way?” Sinbad mumbles to himself. Judal and Aladdin are outside in the garden, with Aladdin’s singing floating through the open windows. 

Living in the mountains is relatively quiet. There’s the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds, and sometimes Aladdin and Judal chirp back. Judal’s at home here in a way Sinbad’s never seen. Today is some sort of celebration, and Aladdin and Judal are reveling in the bustling chaos of the day. 

“Oi, stupid!” carries Judal’s voice. The door bangs open; Judal balances a basket of peaches against his hip. “Start peeling the vegetables!”

“And the peaches?”

“These are for me,” Judal says, and yet he tosses one to Sinbad’s waiting hands. He can’t bring himself to eat it, to look Judal in the eye, and so he retreats to his room, vegetable peeling ignored. He puts the peach on a shelf, and curls under the blankets.

Sleep claims him easily, brings forgotten peace. 

Aladdin rouses him later with excited cheers and little shakes to his shoulder. “Uncle! They’ve begun the festival!”

Once, festivals never started without him. He was the axis that celebrations turned around, the sun of Sindria.

Sinbad buries his face in the pillow. “Let me sleep.”

“Please!” 

“No.”

“Please!” 

“No, Aladdin.”

He can hear the pout in Aladdin’s tone. “If you’re sure. It goes until sundown if you change your mind.”

After that, Sinbad’s sleep is fitful. He dreams of flashes and colors and jumbled words that hiss like a snake’s riddle. When the sun begins its descent, he heads out. He smiles politely at the faces he’s vaguely familiar with, searches for the braids of Judal or Aladdin.

He sees black first, and almost wishes he hadn’t. 

There’s a twinge of  _ something  _ as he watches Judal dance with the dark-haired girl (Sara? Was that her name?) but he can’t figure out what -- is it how they’re smiling at each other? How close they’re dancing? 

“Oh, her?” Judal says, later. “I like her, yeah.”

“What about her?” Sinbad fights to keep his tone casual, light. Perhaps he is jealous: before, girls would flock to him. Here, their eyes and smiles are heavy with pity. 

“She was my first ‘friend’ here,” Judal says. “I use that loosely. She says we’re friends. I don’t. She’s everything I’m not, and that’s what I like.” 

“I see.” Sinbad thinks of Kougyoku. Judal laughs, brief and loud, and grabs his hands, squeezing them and pulling Sinbad forward. Their chests bump. 

“Why don’t you dance with me now?” Judal’s eyes are bright in a way Sinbad has rarely seen, mirrors of the sun that had set over the mountain. “Don’t you like to drink? Dance? You used to.” 

“My blood,” Sinbad says ruefully, “is nearly wine.”

“So spin me now and feel it,” Judal says. “We can go down together.” 

“I won’t let go of you,” Sinbad says, and that — that sounds right. Judal casts him a quick, curious look before Sinbad lifts their linked hands, and Judal twirls gracefully, long hair nearly whipping Sinbad. Judal’s grin is toothy, free, and Sinbad feels reborn. 

He finds himself laughing.

xii. 

“Just because you saved us,” Kougyoku narrows her eyes, takes a deep breath. “Just because you saved us from what you _ did _ doesn’t mean anything!”

“I know,” Sinbad says. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’ll be saying that for the rest of your life,” She mutters. She’s stopped looking at him, crossed her arms and focused on the ground. Sinbad wants to tilt her chin up, see her smile at him again, but he knows that as remarkable as Kougyoku is, he has no right to ask that of her. 

He wants to say  _ I’m sorry  _ again but it feels better to say nothing. Judal’s home feels smaller than usual in the presence of Kougyoku’s billowing red skirts, her flowing hair and frowning mouth. 

“When does Judal-chan come back?” Kougyoku asks. She’s looking at one of Aladdin’s paintings on the wall; her expression has softened. 

Sinbad would’ve rather liked her, in another time. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” 

“Don’t give him too much trouble.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and it sounds false to his own ears. She goes outside to wait for Judal and Aladdin, and it’s about an hour later when he hears familiar chatter fill the air. Aladdin comes instead, pink and beaming. 

“Miss Kougyoku,” he says, “is quite like a rabbit, isn’t she?” 

“What,” Sinbad says. Aladdin puts his hands behind his head and mimics the loops of her hair, wiggles his fingers. 

“You could say that,” Sinbad agrees, and Aladdin comes and sits by his feet, blinks up at him. 

“Uncle Sinbad,” Aladdin says. “It’s okay.” 

“She’s angry,” Sinbad says, “and she has every right to be.” 

“She does.” Aladdin nods. “But we all spend enough time feeling broken, don’t we? You’re not like that anymore. She’ll see.” 

“What if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” Aladdin promises, bright, sincere. Just a little melancholy; like he knows something that Sinbad doesn’t. 

xiii.

Sinbad hears coughing, and wakes. Sleepily following the burning spot of light, he finds Judal in the kitchen with a cup of liquor. The lantern is at his feet. 

“Judal?”

“Sinbad,” Judal says, raises his cup. “Want any?” 

“We used to drink like this, didn’t we?” Sinbad says. “I used to think I was helping you.”

Judal snorts. “ _ How? _ ”

“Like at least you were with me and not somebody else, you know?” Sinbad settles next to Judal with a sigh. “And then you didn’t come around and I didn’t think twice.”

“Wow. Really making yourself look good, huh?” 

“I did think about it,” Sinbad amends. “But I didn’t do anything. Anyway -- it is what it is. I can’t change the past.” 

Judal squints at him. “You need a drink.” 

“I’d rather swim, actually.” Sinbad rolls his shoulders back and winces. “I miss the sea.”

Judal downs the rest of his drink. “Let’s go.” 

The night is chilly but not wholly unpleasant. They slide into the water and Judal whines about the cold, but ice is his element and Sinbad can see he’s happy to make snowflakes dance on the surface. He’s a child of the water. The way the light and the ripples shine and reflect on him is breathtaking: all blue, all silver. 

“In another life,” Sinbad muses, “you would’ve made quite the siren.” 

“Spell and song,” Judal waves a hand, sending water droplets flying. “What’s the difference? My voice, my words will be your death.”

“Morbid.” 

“You’re the one who called me a siren, stupid boy,” Judal says. 

“I’m older than you.” Sinbad raises an eyebrow. “Brat.” 

“Stupid boy,” Judal coos. “I saw you when you were fourteen.” He dives underwater, and his hair fans through the lake like blood seeps across a battlefield, sluggish and dark. When Judal surfaces, bangs plastered to his forehead, Sinbad treads closer. He can see drops of water clinging to Judal’s eyelashes, to the tip of his nose. 

He could kiss Judal easily, if he finds the courage to ask. 

“We could float,” is what Sinbad says. 

“Sure,” Judal says easily. “That makes you feel better?”

“I used to look up at the world, and it’s so vast and grand.” The water envelops Sinbad. “The possibilities were endless. But now I just feel  _ too  _ small.” 

Judal snorts, floating beside him. Their fingertips brush. “You can still do shit. Don’t be an idiot.”

_ I wanted to conquer every universe; today, I want to kiss you, and I don’t know what any of it means. _

_ “ _ Perhaps,” Sinbad says. Judal hums. 

xiv.

The harvest, predictably, goes well, but Kougyoku still insists on celebrating. 

“What’s the point,” Judal says. “You use  _ magic.” _

“We’ve celebrated almost every year since we started this,” Kougyoku explains. “It raises morale, you know.” 

The steely look in her eye says  _ you’re coming whether you like it or not.  _

So Judal nurses a glass of wine and watches the dancing. His robes feel heavy, decorated as they are with thick gold embroidery. Kouen sits next to him, tapping wooden fingers on the table. 

Judal stares at Kouen’s hand and almost spills his drink on his clothes. Kouen raises an eyebrow. Judal’s mouth goes dry. Kouen’s hair is cleaner, trimmed back to what it used to be, but the lines in his face couldn’t be so easily removed. 

“Let’s dance,” Judal says. 

“You’re just being cruel now, aren’t you?” Kouen says wryly. 

“You say that,” Judal says, “like I’m ever anything else.”

“Let’s leave,” Kouen says. A faint smile marks his face, and Judal wants to kiss it away, replace it with the full-bodied laugh he misses. “You’ll get your dance elsewhere.” 

When Kouen stands, he dips close to Judal, hair brushing against him, and suddenly, Judal doesn’t know where their balance is. Right now, it feels like the power rests in Kouen’s hands. Judal kind of hates it -- but wistfulness tugs at his lips when Kouen helps him up. Maybe some things don’t change. 

Judal presses the heel of his eye and rubs. The air is crisp and warm; in ceremonial robes, unable to look at Kouen, Judal feels constricted. It doesn’t feel right to be careful. But maybe he’d thrown away easiness with Kouen when he wanted more than Kouen could ever give him.

Judal mutters, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Kouen’s smirking. He heard, the bastard. 

“I’m not saying it again,” Judal huffs. “I said it for myself.” 

“Dear magi,” Kouen laughs, “I know you better than that.”

“Do you?” Judal says. “Is that what you really think?” 

“I do.” Kouen puts out a hand. Automatically, Judal takes it, only to have his hand be lifted and to be spun gently around.

“I know why you left me,” Kouen says lowly. “I can’t say I completely understand, but it’s been long enough, Judal. Neither of us are who we used to be.”

“So what if you’re not emperor?” Judal says. “You never wanted it.”

“Are you saying that you did me a favor?” Kouen’s lips quirk up, that sly expression of his achingly familiar. If this was before, if Kouen were about to ride out to battle, Judal would’ve kissed him for luck. Drawn blood as an offering to himself. 

But it’s years past that time. 

“I’m saying,” Judal mutters, “that you’re still the best man I know. Throne or no throne.” 

“And you,” Kouen says, runs his fingers through Judal’s hair while the other hand, wooden, sits at Judal’s waist, “mine or not, deserve to be happy.”

“I think,” Judal says slowly, “I’m getting there.”

“Good,” Kouen says. “Would you still like to dance?” 

Under the moon, they sway. 

xv.

“Hey,” Judal says one night. “I’m sorry. About Sindria.” 

“It’s okay,” Sinbad says, and means it. Judal and Sindria is nothing compared to what he did to the world.

“I don’t know if you saw it, but your people recognized me.” Judal toys with a loose thread at the end of his chunni, wrapping it around his finger until it turns purple. “Called me the enemy. The one time I wasn’t trying to be and I just--” 

He pauses, purses his lips. “We’re even now.” 

Sinbad dips his head. “Thank you. I’m sorry too.” 

“Gross,” Judal says, but he wears half a smile. “Hey. I have good news, so you don’t have to look like that.” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s me.” Ja’far steps out of Judal’s room. “Surprise, Sin.”

“How long have you been there?” Sinbad says incredulously. 

“Since you fell asleep an hour ago,” Jafar explains, taking a seat next to Judal. There are bags under his eyes, new lines in face. “So I’ve been speaking with our wonderful Magis here, and we want you to come back. Sindria is ready for you.”

“After all I’ve done?” Sinbad says slowly. “They want me?” 

“Oh yeah,” Judal says. “They still love you. A stupid king needs stupid subjects, and Hanibaba’s done a great job of making you a hero.”

He feels -- dazed. Sick. He should have realized it when Judal brought up Sindria like that, with some kind of  _ finality.  _

Ja’far kneels by his side. “Hey. It’s different now. You’re different.”

“I need to think about it,” Sinbad says. Puts a hand over his eyes, and hears the clinking of Judal’s jewelry as he comes over.

“Oi.” Judal peels his hands back. “What are you afraid of? You can’t fuck up that bad  _ again. _ You were born to rule -- your life isn’t up here in the mountains.”

_ But it is, _ Sinbad thinks. He can’t say anything, tries to count the rings in Judal’s eyes, just feels his breathing coming faster. 

“Sin,” Ja’far says softly. “Take your time. Judal?”

Judal doesn’t step back, just keeps crouching with Sinbad’s hands in his. 

“A guy with a complex like yours,” Judal says. “There’s nothing you can be but a hero.”

“I’ll go,” Sinbad whispers, but later that night, the words taste sour on his tongue, and he thinks  _ why didn’t you tell me to stay?  _

xvi. 

Usually, it’s Aladdin who reports to her. Today, it’s Alibaba, and while she’s happy to see her friend, Kougyoku can’t help but worry.  

“You know Aladdin,” Alibaba says. “He and Judal are on a trip somewhere.”

“You didn’t ask?” She says, turning back to her scrolls with something akin to -- disappointment? Absently, she pushes up her ink-stained sleeve and scratches at her wrist. “He always checks in.” 

Alibaba rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I think he mentioned it, but I can’t remember. Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Kougyoku says. “It’s nothing.” 

It  _ should  _ be nothing but something keeps itching at her all day. She chews her lip and debates calling Judal, but that feels needy. Not befitting of an empress. 

When she thinks she hears anklets following her down the hall, she cracks. She calls Judal and asks how the trip is going, and how is Aladdin? 

“Chibi,” Judal yells. “The old hag wants to talk to you.” 

“No,” she protests, but Aladdin’s voice bubbles over the line next moment. It’s like hearing an old favorite after a long, long time, filling her chest with a rush of warmth. 

“Miss Kougyoku!” 

“Aladdin,” she says evenly, “how are you?” 

“Good,” he hums. “Did you like my surprise?” 

“Surprise?” 

“Alibaba!” Aladdin says. “I thought you’d like to see him. A married man is pretty busy, huh?”

“Yes,” she says, “and so are two magi that I know.”  

“Do you miss me?” Aladdin says, words quick, tumbling like a waterfall. “Wait, is that being too cocky?” 

“Silly boy,” she says softly. “You always are.” 

“Sorry, Miss Kougyoku.” Aladdin doesn’t sound sorry at all, but — fond. In matters of the heart, the fool is unapologetic, unafraid where Kougyoku shies back as if burned.

She supposes she  _ had  _ been burned. Still, for Aladdin, perhaps she can reach out and meet him midway after all this time. 

“I request you check in with me soon,” she says, and hangs up, cutting off a sound of pleased surprise. 

xvii.

“Before I go,” Sinbad says, “back to Sindria, Judal, I have to tell you something.” 

“Oh?” Judal glances over, distracted. “What?” 

“That I -- that you have become incredibly important to me,” Sinbad says haltingly. “And I want you to come with me. Be my magi, Judal.” 

He pauses, sucks in a breath, and says, “I want you to be by my side.”

Judal closes the book he was reading, and the quiet  _ thud  _ rings. 

“I get it,” Judal says. “You want me to be your redemption. But I can’t do that.”

“What?” Sinbad says. “No.”

“You think if we’re together or whatever, you’ll feel good about  _ something.  _ You’ll have a person in your corner. It’s not the same with Freckles or the others. Kougyoku wants nothing to do with you after being like, wow, you hung up the moon.” 

“It’s not like that.” Sinbad’s mouth feels dry. “You’re not just someone.”

“Right, I’m the only one,” Judal says, “treating you the same as always. You think we’re closer because I’m around? I’m over it, Sinbad. Chasing you. Conquering every country. I’m done.” 

“Kouen?” Sinbad can’t help but ask. He knows there had been a falling out (a  _ war _ ) but he can’t help but ask. 

“Stupid king,” Judal says softly, and Sinbad closes his eyes tiredly, wonders if he heard a note of fondness or if was it just a wish.  “You should know how people change.” 

“I do.” Sinbad latches onto Judal’s words. “So do you.” 

_ So why won’t you believe me?  _

“Hey,” Judal says. “How bout a drink?” 

Like that, it’s over, but still -- it’s an echo to simpler times. Simple for Sinbad — and here he is now, on the flipside. Judal still pours drinks with a steady, glittering wrist, but now he’s the one who’s assured and bright. 

Unattainable. 

“Let me tell you a secret,” Judal says. “I’m not angry anymore. Haven’t been for a damn long time. How do you think I feel?”

“Empty,” Sinbad says, and feels it. 

“Yeah,” Judal says. “That was the worst. That was bigger than the anger. It came and it stayed.”

“I’m sorry,” Sinbad says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“It is what it is,” Judal says. “I wanted you, you know.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. It was no secret, not even to a stupid man like you. I wanted you and the world as my conquests. I knew little about you but tall tales, but I wanted you so, so badly. You, Sinbad, would be my way to everything. It wasn’t personal.”

“Of course not.” Sinbad’s mouth is dry, but still he smiles wryly. “Why do you think I went easy on you?”

“Many thanks,” Judal says mockingly, takes a swig. Sinbad matches the motion. “The point is — you’re the lost one now. You don’t want me. What you’re loking for, you’re the only one that can give it to you.”

“Tell me what you want,” Sinbad says. “Don’t — don’t try and tell me how I feel. I am no stranger to —”

“To what? To the maidens of your court?” 

“Don’t avoid it.”

“You can’t command me.” Judal sips from his glass. “Never could. Never will.” 

“Judal,” Sinbad says. “What do you say for yourself?”

Judal raises his eyebrows, and smiles. “I say that I want you to suffer.” 

“Fair.” Sinbad raises his glass. “A toast.” 

“To?”

Sinbad smiles thinly, and Judal laughs. Their glasses clink together, and they sit through the night in silence. 

xviii.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Kouen says, raises his walking stick to tap at the tree’s trunk. “Throw me a peach.” 

Judal chucks it at his head. Kouen catches it with ease. 

“It seems like we’re in a loop,” Kouen says, “doesn’t it?” 

“If we stay in one place, that’s how it’ll be.” Judal says. 

Kouen hums, leans against the tree. From above, Judal can peer down at the gray spreading through Kouen’s hair. 

“Oi,” Judal says, “color your hair.” 

“I’d prefer to let time do what it wishes.” 

“Says the man who fought the flow of destiny.”

“You mean you?” Kouen raises an eyebrow, smirks. “Glad you agree with me.”

“Shut up,” Judal says, wiggles his feet in Kouen’s direction, blots out the gray with shadow. “Do you think you could still catch me?” 

“I can try,” Kouen says. Not  _ of course I can, Oracle _ or that simple, cocky nod that spoke more than words. Judal falls.

They tumble in the grass and Judal puts his laughter in the crook of Kouen’s neck. Doesn’t look up but feels lips brush his hair. 

“Hey,” Judal says. “Good job, old man.” 

“Little oracle,” Kouen says, fond. “I’ll always catch you.”

_ I’ll always love you  _ is something Judal once replied, drunk on sunlight and the feeling of flying. On good days, being with Kouen was like being invincible. 

“Thank you,” is what he whispers now, and it feels like more. 

xix.  

Sinbad’s coronation had been grander than anything Judal has seen in years. He had forgotten what a spectacle that man could be, but knowing what hid behind that mask made the affair just a little harder to swallow. 

The Ren brothers and Kougyoku had been there, and Judal had been swift to avoid the heads of red hair. Aladdin was occupied with Alibaba, Hakuryuu, and Morgiana, and so it had been easy to slip away.

He almost thinks that they’re all wrapped up in themselves, that they don’t need him, but he knows that they would embrace him instantly, drawing him into whatever idiotic debate they were having. 

Times really have changed.

All those years of hating loneliness, of wishing he had somebody by his side, and here he is.  _ Wanting  _ to be away with nothing but the sound of wind and sea. 

He’s always had himself, but he hasn’t always had choices. Today, Judal can sit in the sky like a dark constellation, and be okay with that. 

The air is clean, and feels like  _ home.  _

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, sarah, for the constant support in anything and everything. 
> 
> hit me up @ kokirane on tumblr/twitter if you want talk magi :)


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